


To Kiss a Machine

by Irena_Lyre



Series: 2895 [1]
Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cloud Atlas-inspired AU, Dystopia, Gen, Human Engineering, M/M, Mind Control, cloning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2895, and Sherlock gets a match - made in laboratory.<br/>In a world that runs on clone slavery, Professor Moriarty commissions his consultant Moran to produce John Watson the customised clone, in an effort to gain access to the cognitive process of the singular genius Sherlock Holmes, whose mind he would subsequently model. Biologically engineered to be the perfect companion and stimulus, John’s brain is embedded with wireless chips, through which his endorsers issue neural commands, and receive live stream of everything he perceives. In addition, a special chip is embedded near John’s heart, should anything mess up. But things always mess up, as much as humans do. Not to mention a fatal design error that happens ever so often with engineering.<br/>Sequel: <em>To Marry a Machine</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phase A for Amicable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is a clone. Everybody knows except Sherlock.

Week 0

Key words: Dummy initialization, Test run, Module installation

Description: Physical growth complete. Mental performance satisfactory. Chips functional. Muscles lack practice – clumsy.

Comments: Needs more input to pass as 30-year-old citizen.

\---

 

“Aww, there he is! I swear I could have kept him, or make one for myself some day.” Professor Moriarty is being unnecessarily emotional about his product this particular time. He rubs his hands as the white adult male takes a step out of the breeding-pool, wonder-filled blue eyes wincing in the cold florescent light of Galaxy Megalophiology Laboratory.

“Don’t you dare,” Moran hisses.

“Although, I would have preferred a prototype with your degree of hotness, minus the tantrum.” Professor Moriarty ignores his assistant’s snort. “What’s the bio of our prototype again?”

“John H. Watson, M.D., born at the end of the 1900s, invalided from the British army in his 30s and taught at a hospital until he died. Was married with two kids. Left his DNA footprint when treated for a gun wound in Afghanistan – that would be at the basement of Persepolis Arcade, if you care.”

“No, I don't . So, an army doctor, huh. How is our dummy’s brain coping with that?”

“Exceptionally well. Although the contents of our knowledge modules are beyond his 21-century self’s imagination, he is grown with way better nutrition than the original. You picked the prototype out of our 1000-year database – Did you not think about all that?” Moran protests.

“Hey, I had the idea, but you did the thing. I’ll be Daddy,” Professor Moriarty puts his arm around the engineer’s waist, “and you’ll be Mummy, Sebbie. A Mother always knows best.”

“Oh please stop, you’re making me sick.” Moran retorts, with a wry smile.

“Actually, John H. Watson’s features just struck me as peculiar, mundane as he was. Research shows that opposites attract – who’s to say that our tall, dark-haired genius would not find the appeal of a short, blond companion?”

“You’re one crazy match-maker.” Moran laughs.

“Also, a background of violence and surgery practice– what could be a better way of getting to our murder-loving consulting detective?”

Moran looks at him incredulously. “Damn right. Look who’s the genius here.”

“Oh, you flatter me, Seb. But the truth is that I could not be farther from it. Like those lacking artistic talent inevitably turn to art criticism, I, deprived of Nature’s gift, am doomed to merely pursue an analytical understanding of it.”

\---

 

“Hullo, Mike.”

“Strange is the wind that bore the esteemed Professor Moriarty to my humble lab.” Dr. Stamford says drily. “What can I do for you? You could have just sent your assistant over for whatever you want.”

“How is your experiment going? ” Professor Moriarty lazily strolls up to the long series of stacked silicon tubes.

“Leave them alone.” Dr. Stamford steps up angrily.

“Easy, Mike, I’m not breaking anything. I know your stuff as well as my own. In fact, I just happened to skim over a fundamental flaw in your project design, submitted to the Galaxy Science Committee last month -”

“You can’t say that with confidence.” Dr. Stamford keeps a cool stance. “This whole field is new, and the fundamentals are not even well-defined yet. Only time and test results will validate my design.”

“True, true.” Professor Moriarty nods. “Then it is a pity for science, that my mere words should have an ill-deserved impact upon the clay-heads that make up the Committee. You can’t run these darlings on faculty salary,” he caresses a fervently whizzing equipment, “can you?”

The corner of Dr. Stamford’s mouth twitches. “What do you want?”

Professor Moriarty suppresses a triumphant smile. “Ah, it’s quite simple. In a week’s time, I will present you a nice bloke, and you will introduce him as an old acquaintance of yours to our mutual friend, Sherlock Holmes. It’s easier that way. Sherlock can use another friend, can he not?”

\---

 

Holmes the senior opens his umbrella as he steps out of 221B Baker Jet-street, although the sky is barely cloudy. The routine visit to his little brother is as smooth as an encounter with any sociopath can be, but even Sherlock seems a little more placable than usual, with a meekly pleasant new ‘friend’ by his side.

“Sir, there are foreign elements embedded in the new tenant’s body, one of them terminative. The digital fingerprint of said element has no match in the Galaxy Clone Control System.” Reports Anthea. A subtle badge on her arm, almost blending into her outfit, bespeaks a higher authority than her compliant appearance suggests.

“No match indeed? Good. Not your average clone.” Holmes the senior strokes his chin with his other hand. “That confirms my suspicion. The addition, or rather the creation, of John Watson the 30-year-old’s Identity, was too recent an event in the Galaxy Citizen Record. Hacks by clone endorsers do happen, sometimes for benevolence, sometimes with more malicious intents, since even this most highly guarded Record has a 0.001% annual disturbance tolerance. But this case should not escape my attention, where my little brother is concerned.”

“Shall we investigate, Sir?” Anthea asks.

“Eventually, yes, but make no move yet.” Mycroft lets out a sigh. “Apparently this flatmate is tailored for Sherlock’s company. Although the motive behind this curious design is unclear, I would be lying to say that I have never considered this option myself. Watch the duo closely. We shall see what the day brings.”


	2. Observer Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overview of the world they live in following A Study in Pink.

Week 1

Key words: Dummy launch, Quality control

Description: Erratic influx of info. Occasional disruptions.

Comments: Urgent need for active navigation of activities into useful channels.

\---

 

“Fantastic.” This is amongst the first things Watson says to his assigned companion. It’s what he is supposed to say, although he is genuinely impressed by his flatmate, going by the speed of his speech - there is barely enough time to process. And everybody else on the scene is so shocked too. How interesting.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” The detective looks at him as if the compliment had never been uttered before. Surely it can’t be.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.” Watson is slightly embarrassed. Was it that loud? Social etiquettes are such a mystery.

“No, it’s…fine.”

\---

 

Much of the M-Lab is now taken up by five gigantic monitors. Moriarty watches intensely the one that replays Holmes’s motions through Watson’s eyes, while another is printing out strings of words pulled from the sound waves. The other three are less comprehensible, with lots of colourful graphs and charts, and incessant pop-ups of “White noise, removal suggested.”.

“You know, I can reconstruct these feeds to make you see, hear and feel exactly like Watson does.” Moran leans back against the bench, crossing his arms with a proud smirk.

Moriarty turns around to face his smug engineer. “Oh, no, I would rather keep calm and stay away from the thrill. Observing from a distance is fine - the Lauriston Gardens case is a dream launch. Behold the sheer beauty of the incoming data flow - Ah, it’s Christmas also for me. Sherlock, thou art brilliant. Don’t be jealous, Sebbie, you’re brilliant too. Look how fond of our creation Sherlock is.”

“In the words of Sherlock himself - the fragility of genius is the need for an audience, and we gave him just that. Even so, the rate of rapport establishment has exceeded my expectation.” Moran cringes a little. “They stopped for _food_ halfway – no preliminary study could predict such a thing. Could it be that our point charge is so powerful, it has come to disrupt the field under observation?”

“Of course it has, Sebbie, did you miss the part where our dummy goes all the way to _save Sherlock’s life_?” Moriarty chuckles. “I amglad he’s clear about his duties. The whole world owns our hand-crafted super soldier a favour, for Watson’s presence reduces, if not eliminates, the risk of our subject of study losing his whacky self. That is a very welcomed disruption.”

“Yeah, I suppose, less of a disruption than to simply drag Sherlock over here and plunge into his brain, as I would like to.”

“Not to mention that we need his mind _at work_. Hence Watson, our second best. Get to the analysis, Seb, now that you have plenty to work on.”

\---

 

The case closes without much ado, if a dead psychopath and a narrow escape of the criminal-hunter count as normal. The next morning, Watson is munching on toast and wondering whether his M-Lab overlords would care to analyse the taste of strawberry jam from 221B’s fridge, when Holmes suddenly speaks up.

“Stamford was clearly anxious when he introduced you.”

 _Here comes a confrontation. Improvise._ “Because you are in the room…?”

Holmes looks up with disbelief. “We’ve only been acquainted for less than a week, and you are sassing me?”

“Well, you’re the one that suggested we move in together the first day we met, I assume you knew what’s in store.”

The lines around Holmes’s eyes crease slightly, and Watson knows he has a point.

“Indeed, I do. Few relations, boarding school before enlistment. A good doctor in the United Terra Defences, but little experienced in the world outside. Did I miss anything?”

Watson flinches. The last bit is unexpectedly true. Remembering his task, he inquires, “And you knew it how?”

“Well-educated, impeccable manners, yet lofty and reluctant to form close emotional ties – most probably away from family since a young age, and not much connections thereafter, hence looking for a flat share with a stranger. Hair and posture military, medical education background, both are reflected in demonstrated expertise in violence and surgery at the crime scene.”

“And about the world outside…?”

“Please, has no one else commented how you manage to dress like a grandfather and a toddler at the same time?” Holmes lazily flips through a news-tab above his cup of coffee.

Watson snorts. _Thanks for the costume design, Moran._ “No, they haven’t.”

“Is there anything I missed?” Now Holmes’s eyes are fixed back on Watson.

Watson smiles at the eagerness for approval. “Spot on, except that I don’t have few relations – I have none. ‘Boarding school’ is an understatement.”

Something flashes by in Holmes’s eyes. Ah, the camaraderie in loneliness alike, as Watson’s clever endorsers have conjectured.

“Ugh, there’s always something. So you did not enlist -”

“No, it was simply compulsory. Stamford is the closest thing I have to a friend, but he cannot claim to know me well. We met in med class before I got stationed. I just really need a place to live.” Watson recites his lines about the fictional connection. It’s quite a sad story, actually, almost sadder than Watson’s real self. But just what _is_ the real self, besides a 2-week old router for what the M-Lab wants?

Holmes’s injection pulls his mind back into the current conversation. “How was the orphanage?”

Watson shrugs. “Most people don’t just ask that, but then, you’re not most people. Not much of a boyhood there.”

“I would have thought. Possibly as dull as my own. Come, Watson, I will take you to London.”

Watson blinks. “But we are in London.”

“By which you mean the current stretch of air encompassing the skyline of what was known as Western Europe, and you’re on the 221st floor of it. We are geographically closer to Frankfurt, going by old place names. Have you ever wondered what the ground floor looks like?”

 _Well, now that you mentioned it, I am wondering._ Watson cannot fathom what his crackpot of a flatmate is up to this time, but somehow it sounds oddly exciting.

“Let us tour the original London, on an iconic device of boyhood from that age. To do that, first let us head to the Museum.”

\---

 

“That would be the setup validation you’re looking for,” Moriarty observes with satisfaction.

“Yes, quite.” Moran curls his lips. “The attempt to weave up a family background would out-fuss the combined work of hacking the Citizen Record, the Civil Archive of Abandoned Minors, and the Defences database all together. Settling for the orphanage would also naturally lead to the military career. It’s very reassuring to see our genius buying all that, but from now on, additional Watson-appreciation from Holmes will just be redundant.”

“When the data stream stabilises, you can add a filter for the mundane conversations.”

“No, even the bad data points are precious. I’d tell Watson to jack up the quality though.”

\---

 

The Terra Citadel is a hustling place, where jet-cars in different styles hover in and out. At the front gate of the Terra Museum, citizens line up to scan their wrists for admission. Watson notices the clones by the side, and hangs his head low. They are hard to miss, for the division is clear - every one of them bears a mark of servitude of some kind. A collar is the crudest, while an ankle ring is nicer, and high-end corporate or private clones may have invisible chips much like Watson’s own. Unlike his peers, Watson enjoys a citizen Identity, as well as a family name, but he still irrationally fears the setting off of an alarm, should Holmes choose to go in. Fortunately, there isn’t much time for Watson’s personal lament, for Holmes deftly leads the way through the crowd, straight to the little-visited back.

“Welcome, Sir.” The Museum storage unit swings open as Holmes scans a bracelet. “A copy of Mycroft’s Identity. He probably knows.” Holmes explains.

Watson’s eyes open wide as shiny rows of two-wheeled vehicles are revealed in the dim vault, if vehicles they are. Holmes test-turns a few, and picks out two.

“These are the last productions before they fell out of use and became a _collection_. Facsimiles persist in gyms, but that’s not what they were designed for. Termed ‘the self-moving vehicle’ in the Chinese language, it was a common form of transport before the drastic advance of geo-engineering in the 2300s that allowed for the elevation of the tropopause to contain the population, and the construction of jet-ways. Think, Watson, about the wonder of propelling yourself via the device, not by fusion between uranium atoms against torrents of air, but by processes inside your own very cells and friction against the _ground_.”

\---

 

The westward descend from London Grand Central is faster than Watson thought. As they approach Level 50, few passengers remain. Occasionally a conductor clone would shot a suspecting glance at their strange devices, which Watson has gotten used to by now.

“I’m dizzy.”

“It’s the abundance of oxygen. Level 43 marks the boundary of the metropolis, and the public shuttle will only bring us this low. Come this way, Watson, we’re taking the maintenance passage.”

\---

 

Apparently Mycroft’s Identity is capable of unlocking just any _Staff only_ door, but even that could not save them the trouble of having to walk the final three levels, while carrying the _bicycles_. What a dumb name.

“This is a complicated trip – do you do it a lot?”

“Not in a while. It is well for us that these 2400s’ productions are of titanium, not steel, or your arms would have been sore by now. They are also fitted with the marvellous auto-balance, without which you would have to _learn_ to ride first.”

 

The view, it turns out, is quite worth the trouble. Remnants of bridges, ports and cathedrals are scattered along the winding river, their former splendour covered by vines, giving the landscape a desolate beauty. To weight down on the tyres against a mixture of grass and concrete and propel oneself forward is a wholly unregistered experience. A furry white creature gives Watson a jump – _rabbits_ , his knowledge module reacts seconds later. He inhales deeply in the rampant greens, an impossible luxury in the metropolis overhead, where dirt is precious, and floating gardens are always crowded.

“Here we come to the wide part of the river, which give rise to the name London. Unlike the toxic waters surrounding Neo-Seoul, the Old Town actually remains habitable, if one has no desire for society.” Holmes makes a swirling turn, his coattail all the more dramatic. “Isn’t it curious how some parts of humanity never change?”

“Like, sticking to old place names?”

“Yes, but more than that. We are not far from the Prime Meridian; here in this town is where they thought the world starts, and rightfully so, as they were amongst the first to chart this world through exploration. The ancient Empire still proudly justifies her dominance by entrepreneurship and science.”

Watson nods. All these knowledge, or information, have already been installed in his brain, but to have someone pointing things out to him and talking to him is a different matter. It’s _thought-provoking_.

“Yes, but to feed these high-maintenance drivers, the accumulation of the start-up capital has often involved the systematic exploitation of fellow humans. Caste, race, religion, gender, socioeconomic class – any difference was seized as an excuse for discrimination, oppression or even slavery.”

“True. Thanks to thousands of years of civilisation, those grim days are far behind. All citizens enjoy the same rights now, do we not?”

“Yes, so did citizens of Rome. The word citizen is often discriminatory in itself.”

“Hmm, so should clones be our equal? Good political question, can't answer. …Why are we talking about this?”

Watson’s voice falls a little flat. “Oh, no reason at all. It’s just a thinky environment, I guess. Oxygen invigorates the mind, you know.”

\---

 

After climbing three levels, the public shuttle is almost out of service by the time they reach the platform. Things are less than smooth, when they sneak back to the Museum while hurling the antiques. Instead of the recorded welcome, the pair is greeted by the Museum superintendent.

“Your Identity hack is quite extraordinary, kids, but if you think a senior visit at this _ungodly_ hour will go unnoticed, think again. Drones!”

Watson glances around at the furious robotics closing in, as Holmes grabs him by the hand and whispers,

“Run.”

\--

 

Slamming the door behind shut, Watson finds his own uncontrollable giggles annoying, although his medical science module informs him that it's just the natural release of dopamine from the aerobic exercise. He looks to his partner in crime, who is equally sweaty and out of breath, and with an equally huge grin. “That was clever, how you used the narrow valley, it was awfully clever. Poor little robots.”

Holmes chortles. “They will get repaired in no time.” He lets go of Watson’s hand to shrug off his coat. “This has not happened for years.”

“What, you breaking into high-security places just for the kicks?”

“No, me getting caught.”

The mechanism of a shared laugh is not explained in Watson’s extensive knowledge module, but it is a strange fuzzy feeling.

\---

 

“This is outrageous,” Moran taps at the _delete_ button aggressively, “a bicycle trip _on the ground_ and a debate of _philosophy_? What next, a trans-Atlantic cruise to study the whales? A shuttle to the Moon to observe an Earth-rise?”

“I will take you to the Moon for an Earth-rise if you so desire,” Moriarty laughs. “As long as our chips are up, there is no harm in a little fun. Sherlock is quite an explorer, we’ll give him credits for that. It could be an indispensible component of the genius mind.”

“Yeah, along with all other non-quantifiable crap.” Moran slams his hands down to the bench. “When I designed the perfect company for a sociopath, I built him to sustain prolonged disappointment, humiliation, neglect, not these useless sparkles of endorphin. Every non-useful minute is our loss, Jimmy. Time to bring our dummy down from the high.”

\---

 

After bidding Holmes good-night, Watson is still grinning to himself in his room. Out of nowhere, a wave of guilt and anxiety sets in, and he shudders.

“That was a day of good idle fun, John Watson. But remember, you are on a mission. Make him _think_. Make him _talk_.”

Ouch.


	3. A Study in Stupidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran publishes a journal article, and Watson gets a gift.

Moran, S., Moriarty, J. High-order nonlinearity of the superior reasoning system and its statistical approximation. _Terra Bulletin of Intelligence Simulation_. **38,** 13-27(2895).

\---

 

“Good job, Sebbie! The reception was rave at the Conference.”

“A statistical model means nothing,” Moran groans. “it’s just a nice way of admitting that no dynamic model is making sense. Will we ever build Sherlock, Jim?”

“Patience, Seb, patience. We are only at the beginning, and our dummy brings many surprises.”

\---

 

This morning, Holmes is away early. Watson faintly recalls his mumblings the previous night concerning Mummy, and sits down in the living room for a nice cuppa. It is so enjoyably quiet that the opening lines of the classical _Avenue Q:_ _If You were Gay_ would be most fitting, were it not for the fear of sniggers at the M-Lab. Suddenly, a strange interference comes over him. Contrary to the M-Lab forcing that commands, this is a counter-presence – the strings are cut. His mind is free.

Before there is time to contemplate the eerie change, the door is opened by Anthea without knocking. “What you are experiencing is an S-field, Dr. Watson. Please be assured that our current communication is safe from any unfriendly eyes, for your chips are now out of the service zone. Would you come along with me?”

Irritated by the uninitiated intrusion, Watson replies coldly, “We are alone here. You can talk.”

“Well, we are not alone here for no reason. But this flat will not do, for there is much to talk about.” Maintaining her placid smile, Anthea takes a step closer. “Shall I remove your shirt, Dr. Watson, to make my point?”

Watson just stares, and swallows down his tea really hard.

“The jet-car is right at the door, if you would, please.”

\---

 

Following Anthea through the arched corridor, Watson is pretty positive that the funny-looking fake flowers hanging on both sides in precise symmetry are doing more detection than decoration. Such are the things that may pass unnoticed by a layperson, but coming from the M-Lab, Watson has seen enough weird devices for a lifetime. In an utterly plain room at the corridor’s end is Holmes the senior without a doubt, already perusing the readings from the scan.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet.” Upon Watson’s entry, Holmes the senior gives his umbrella a lavish swing. “Apologies for the inconvenience, Dr. Watson, or should I call you John~ what’s the number? 001 I suppose, since there has been no other who shares your prototype.”

_Oh, here comes the Government._ Watson wonders if the omnipresent Mycroft Holmes has ever entered the consideration of the M-Lab as a part of the plan. He straightens himself up to face his forthright opponent. “Who I am is not of your business. I have come into your brother’s acquaintance in good-will, and we are now friends, if that is your concern.”

“It is extraordinary, to claim friendship with Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes the senior chuckles. “And you are indeed an extraordinary fabricant. The peculiar location of your chips has been fascinating since we first met, but how they function has eluded me without a high-resolution scan. Five sensors for the five senses. Your endorser is quite old-school in the design of what is perhaps the first truly holistic humanoid surveillance. In all honesty, access to this sort of information is what myself would very much like to have, although I understand that it is not yours to give.”

_Holistic humanoid surveillance._ The foul undertone of the technical description turns Watson’s stomach a little. _Is this really what I am, and what I do? The Government is so good at breaking people. Must not relent._ “Mr. Holmes, I trust that you are a busy man, so are we getting to the point anytime soon?”

“Busy as I am, I should always gladly take the necessary time and effort to protect my little brother’s interest, as well as his friend’s.” Holmes the senior is in no hurry at all. “Do not grudge so swiftly, for I do have your best interest in mind. Have you realised that the communication via your five sensors is in fact one-way? What you experience is harvested like honey from a beehive, but what you _think_ is left untouched. Your endorser does not ask for _your_ feedback. Perhaps it is not considered worth the while. Are you relieved or slighted by the omission? It could be to your advantage.”

Watson stands amazed for a moment. Indeed he has not realised this. The chips intercede his senses and issue commands without asking for an RSVP – despite being constantly watched, his thoughts stay hidden, unless they are shouted out or written down, which then get heard or seen. This is an exciting new fact, for some reason.

“The visible presence of the sixth is largely regrettable. Just don’t go swimming with Sherlock.” Before Watson could think of a comeback, Holmes the senior directs a nod towards Anthea, who produces a palm-sized round patch with a single tiny blue light, and hands it to Watson.

“Here - this is the S-field generator. Take the S to stand for shelter or safety. It would shield all signals to and from your endorser, covering even the sixth chip.” Watson involuntarily jolts a little at the mentioning of the terminative. “But use only sparingly - prolonged exposure to the S-field poses a health risk not yet fully assessed, especially to the brain. Take precaution, Dr. Watson, may it serve you well in need. I need not spell out my preference to our meeting going unmentioned to my dear brother, do I?”

\---

 

As soon as Watson disappears into the corridor, Anthea turns to Mycroft. “Sir, this is a paradox. When the chips are under command, the source of the incoming signal can be easily traced with a scan, exposing our involvement through Watson’s observation in the process. But when the endorser’s access to Watson’s observation is cut off by an S-field - ”

“There will be no incoming signal to trace. Quite a puzzle, isn’t it?” Amusement glints in Holmes the senior’s eyes. “Whoever his endorser be, he or she surely lacks no intellect. Interrogation would probably not help, since this fellow is wired to be very loyal – the question is, to which side. To get ahead, we take the long route. Run his genetic footprint through the Integrated Human Genetics Record. His prototype would be our first clue.”

“Yes, Sir.”

\---

 

“Drop me off at Ocset, will you?”

Watson switches off the patch on his first step into the hypermarket. Not surprisingly, Mycroft has managed to come across as even more ominous than the notorious MorMor, and Watson does not like the sound of unspecified risk. Plus, there is no harm in the M-Lab feeling the milk’s weight in his hand and tasting all the free samples he tries. _Enjoy the bit of disgusting cheez-squeez, Moran._

Upon returning to the flat, what Watson sees stretched all over the sofa is Holmes’s lean body in a state of deliberate intoxication. It's not a situation that Watson is particularly fond of, but the oddity has now become a familiarity. And familiarities, however wrong, have a way of getting condone. With a sigh, Watson sits down opposite to Holmes, and makes a remark.

“You are a man of habit.”

“Hmm?” Holmes lazily turns his head. After a handful of cases together, he has somehow gotten used to random comments from his infinitely curious companion. Watson’s voice, free from condemnation, sounds extra distant through the haze.

“You stick to cocaine, when there has been more efficient means of achieving the euphoria for centuries. And the fascination with the bicycle. Not to mention your violin – many play the instrument visually, but with actual, physical _bow and strings_?” Watson teases. “Are you from the 1700s?”

“Digitalized sounds repel me.” Holmes responds. “But carry on. What else have you observed?”

“In spite of the insatiate chase after thrill and excitement, you value above all the few anchors you have - unlikely certainties in a churning world. Your appreciation is in the form of rituals, which happen to include the constant belittlement of myself.”

“Excellent!” Holmes suddenly sits up. “See, Watson, you are not only a brilliant transmitter of light, but also a brilliant reflector. When you reflect my deductions back at me, I shall reflect your compliments back at you.”

\---

 

“Shit, our dummy is making his own deductions. I’m not sure if I like that.” Moriarty’s brows tie into a knot as he watches Watson’s words being recognised from the sound wave, one by one.

“Don’t be silly, Jimmy. He is our biological equal, if not superior, of course he can observe and form ideas.” Moran casually bites at his sandwich. “Do you want to cut him off though? That can be quite easily done.”

“Yes, please do, it’s creeping me out. The dummy might prove to be a faster learner than our model itself overtime.”

A blocking signal towards Watson’s speech pathway is sent by a bag of crisps hitting the interface, but Moriarty’s comment has switched on something in Moran’s mind.

\---

 

“…Well?”

“Nothing. I forgot what I was talking about.”

“And they say drugs deteriorate the brain.” Holmes shakes his head before dozing off.

\---

 

_Leave me alone._

Closing his bedroom door, Watson fingers the new possession in his pocket. The rude interference with the conversation he just had was the most annoying experience ever, even more so than all the random unsettling commands from Moran whenever he likes. _Why is that?_ Maybe it comes from the realisation – with Mycroft’s help – that his thoughts are free, but his expressions aren’t. _Well, that can change._ He decides to take some time, truly, for himself. The S-field is flipped on, and he opens up his log-pad, which previously consists of grocery lists, mostly.

_S is for solitude._

 

_Wednesday, 2 Nov 2895_

_Today I got kidnapped by Mycroft, and he called me_ holistic humanoid surveillance _. That doesn’t sound nice at all. Moriarty once said to me, matter-of-factly,_ It is an honourable mission, perhaps the most honourable for your kind, to probe the greatest mind amongst the living. _So apparently all that I am is for watching Sherlock move, and probing his mind. But what about his heart? …_

\---

 

“Shit. _Oh shit_. A second episode of downtime in one single day, Jimmy. Not good.”

“The first ever downtime occurred this morning when Holmes was away and Watson went shopping; then hours later a second, when Watson was sitting in his room alone.” The look on Moriarty’s face is tense as he browses through the records. “It could be that the all-too-frequent rushes of adrenaline are wearing out the sensors, and the damage is most manifest when relieved from stress. So far, the blank intervals are not causing much data loss, but if it happens when Sherlock is on a case - ”

Moran slouches his shoulders, and covers his face with both hands in chagrin. “Jimmy, I think we’ve made a mistake.”

Moriarty smirks. “What, you’re pregnant?”

“Shut up, listen to me!” Moran raises his voice in anger. “The trouble we went through to install Watson as a real person is precisely the mistake. What we should have said is, _here Sherlock, have a clone live-in, and we’ll gladly replace him if he breaks._ It fits Sherlock better, and would have allowed updates of our dummy design when we need.”

“Hmm. Good point. Is it too late to do that now?”

“Emotional attachments. Ugh.” Moran points his chin to the monitor back in motion, showing Watson downstairs asking Holmes what delivery he would like to order. “See? Bonds with a sociopath are difficult to establish, and once they are in place, a disturbance would have complicated and unpredictable consequences. We can’t just remove, or replace Watson now, without troubling Sherlock’s mind.”

“Then the mistake is mine, to have made Watson so likeable, thus tying our own hands.” Says Moriarty, grimly. “Now our only option is to make the most use out of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with minor wording fixes.  
> Concerning this universe: the name for the hypermarket, Ocset, springs from an actual retail chain (you’ll have one close to you if you live in Britain). Guess which one.


	4. Interlude: Hello 2896!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two excerpts from Watson’s logs.

 

_Sunday, 25 Dec 2895_

_We got back to Baker Jet-street early. Christmas dinner with the Holmes’ was not outrageously awkward, as Mycroft suggested, but I could be wrong, considering that I haven’t had any other Christmas dinner to compare it with. The food was exquisite, by any standard. Mrs. Holmes was asking lots of questions, because apparently Sherlock had not brought anyone home previously, ever. I was quite flattered by the attention. In fact, she assumed that I was to spent the night in Sherlock’s room. LOL - maybe in another universe where I don’t have a bunch of chips in my body. Nevertheless, the visit to Sherlock’s old room proved to be fascinating. I doubt that all_ real boys _could get their hands on the sort of collections and inventions belonging to Sherlock; if they do, I envy them._

 

Before starting a new entry, Watson reads through his older logs with a grin, the memories of his first Christmas in the real world coming back vividly at him. The definition of merry-making at the family home was not exactly in line with the installed social norms in his brain, but such is a life shared with Sherlock Holmes. The accomplishment of jotting down something _uniquely his_ each day totally outweighs the spookiness of the S-field and the risk of a discovery by the M-Lab. It’s like a secret double-life. But he was already living a double-life, so that makes it triple. _What would be a good name, if I were to make it into a book,_ Watson entertains the thought to himself. _The Secret Triple Life of the First Holistic Humanoid Surveillance_. Mmm. Rotten idea.

 

_Saturday, 21 Jan 2896_

_It’s a rainy day, and with no case at hand, Sherlock is grumpy and bored. He stayed in bed until almost lunch, took some tea, and scratched at the violin for a while. We watched some crappy show afterwards. He hated it. I loved it, secretly – not the show, mind you, but watching it_ together _. I guess the thirst for adrenaline has been wired into me, along with many other things, but simply having him by my side and knowing that everything is OK makes me more than content. I’m actually guilty about it – he was suffering so badly. Sorry, Sherlock._

 

A familiar knock on his door interrupts Watson’s favourite daily pastime. So engrossed in his one-sided affectionate narrative, Watson absent-mindedly calls back, “Just a minute, Sherlock.” Then he realises what he has said. Shutting down his log-pad, he quickly opens the door to make amends. “Apologies, Holmes, I was - ”

Holmes squints his eyes. “No, Watson, it’s OK. I would not be adverse to addressing you as John if you so prefer.”

“All right, it’s, erm, shorter.” John nods, lamely.

_Stupid_ , _stupid_ , _stupid_. How would that justify calling _Holmes_ by his first name?

Sherlock does not seem to have caught the illogic. He simply says, “Dinner is ready when you are, John.” Before heading downstairs.

John could not help but to beam like a loon. _Is this what family feels like?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as light-hearted? Because things are going darker down the road. By the way, did you know that people have already made calendars for the 29th century and beyond?


	5. The Greater Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored. Moriarty helps.

Week 30

Key words: Dummy downtime, Influx stall

Description: Persistent daily downtime. Seasonal fluctuation of crime rate and intensity. (Correlation with socioeconomic parameters? Not our division)

Comments: NEED DATA

\---

 

“The Integrated Record has been exhausted, Sir, without a match in prototype. However, distant relatives have been found, some of them also with the name Watson, suggesting that the prototype in question was a natural pureblood as opposed to an industrial fabricant, but rather ancient.”

Holmes the senior’s eyes sharpen as citizen profiles of a handful of Watson families light up around them. His fingers are tapping the handle of his umbrella. “Keep searching. Extend the Record forward as much as possible.”

“Sir, the data prior to 2276 is not readily available in the Civil Service domain. To engage with bio-political archaeology is a time-consuming and complicated - ”

“Can. We. Do. It?” Holmes the senior stresses.

Anthea bows slightly. “Yes, Sir, potentially all the way to 1869.”

“Good. That should be enough to track down a Balrog of Morgoth.”

\---

 

In perhaps the only other place with working hours comparable to Mycroft’s, Moran is engaged in the agitating routine of null reading deletion, especially so as their occurrence is not entirely regular. “Bad news, boss: we are still suffering through semi-regular downtimes on a daily basis. Better news: so far it only happens when Sherlock is absent.”

“I suppose you have some good news to follow?”

“Nope. Worse of all news: the criminal world of London has hit a low-activity phase following the holiday season, and our database is becoming almost dormant.” Having plunged through existing observations during break, the workaholic in Moran is upset with the present shortage of fresh incomes.

“The semi-regularity of the blackouts alarms me.” Turning down Sherlock’s bickering at John over nothing, Moriarty taps his fingers on the bench in an impatient fashion. “Regular unsupervised intervals, however brief, may breed undesirable habits. What does our dummy use this time for, wank?” Moran rolls his eyes at the uninitiated lewd suggestion. “Nevertheless, the lack of meaningful new observations is a cause of greater concern.” Moriarty directs the conversation to Moran’s interest. “What would a good engineer do, Sebbie, when you need something you don’t already have?”

Moran gives a puzzled look. “I would…make thing. Build them myself.”

“Exactly!” Moriarty snaps his fingers. “Would you be so kind, to construct some intriguing, exciting, fun cases for dear Sherlock?”

Moran hesitates for a moment to work out the implications of such a proposal. “Sure. I know people.”

“Mind you, they don’t have to involve _people_. Think of the wonderful resources at our disposal, and make them good.”

\---

 

The outburst of several vicious crimes in the course of one week, dubbed _Nightmare before Valentine’s_ by the local headline, has outraged the public and shook the Yard. For Sherlock, that means several happily sleepless nights. For John, it means more demands from the M-Lab and less time for log-keeping. _But that’s fine. Seeing Sherlock at his best is always fine._

The new day brings them to yet another crime scene. In a funny but unfit layout for the occasion, the Yarders are lined up more or less ceremoniously on both sides of the tape that Sherlock lifts for John.

“Can’t ever say I’m happy to see you, but here we are.” DI Lestrade wipes a hand down his face, the lines around his eyes deep. “This way. It’s as bad as the last two, but different.”

As Sherlock darts around inspecting, John receives yet another novel specification out of Moran’s fancy. “Fix your eyes on him. Now, face him and trace the eye movements. These are important clues to his brainwork.”

John reluctantly follows the command, which entails lowering his face over the corpse right opposite of Sherlock to stare into his eyes, despite an incomprehensive frown from the latter. Donovan snickers, and whispers something into Anderson’s ear, who nods knowingly.

“What?” Sherlock asks, more of a genuine inquiry than a complaint.

“Erm, nothing, just getting a better look.” John is not aware of his own slightly flushed cheeks. Despite the pretense to be cool, he redirects his eyes down to the actual dead body a little awkwardly.

“What?” That’s from Moran, more of a statement of disdain than a real question.

_Some Yarder thinks I’m hitting on my flatmate, that’s what. Not that you care about how I feel,_ John answers angrily in his mind. For the remainder of their stay at the scene, John’s eyes wander here and there, like his thoughts.

\---

 

“The last case closed, right on the 14th. Take something off people’s minds.” John comments with glee, as he closes the door of 221B behind them.

“Closed, thought the Yard. But look at the three culprits as a collective.” Still untangling his scarf, Sherlock is babbling out new formulations with each step he takes. “Von Herder, well-to-do middle-aged male citizen, firearm, family feud. Baldwin, misadjusted juvenile male citizen, baseball bat, personal conflict at school. Sarah~074, impoverished female clone, poison, financial and relationship woes.” He abruptly turns around, causing John to almost fall over. “Do you see a pattern, John?”

John shakes his head. “Umm, other than that somebody got killed, no.”

“Oh, brilliant. Brilliant representation of the layperson.” John knows that was coming. Sherlock settles himself on the sofa and begins to make wild hand gestures. “The makeup is so diverse, smeared across the criminal spectrum in every dimension. In fact, too diverse, and so perfectly in line with the up-to-date offender statistics and recognised stereotypes that are most likely to be filed away as _normal_ murderers if such a category exists, which ironically makes an outstanding series.”

It takes John a minute to respond. “Wait, you think the murders are serial? But the three cases have absolutely nothing in common.”

“Precisely. It’s like getting exactly all six numbers when you roll a die six times – a perfect conformation to the common perception of randomness and fairness, but the actual probability of that occurrence is less than 2%.”

John quietly ponders at the mathematics. 6!/6^6 - the chance is indeed 0.015. _Oh._

“On a similar ground, I would like to reject the hypothesis that the events are truly random and independent, and propose that the mastermind behind, with a certain degree of statistician’s obsessive-compulsive disorder, has taken the time to get themselves well-versed in the latest report on homicidal analysis. This might well be what I would do to deter the suspicion of interconnection if I were to plan three murders in such a short span of time, except that I would have done it better, by allowing some degree of random variation which might introduce overlapping traits in some aspects of the crimes, but not enough for them to be linked.” Finally finished with the long sentences, Sherlock leans back with considerable satisfaction to watch a flustered John.

“Well, OK, that’s a bit above me.” Dismissing Sherlock’s look of _Obviously_ , John ponders on. “But what for? And how? None of the three culprits has any known tie to criminal organisations. You can’t just control people’s - ”

John cuts out his own naive assumption. Some people can, he knows damn too well. _Can I fight the urge to pull a trigger, if the M-Lab makes me?_ Wait -

“How, and why, these are the big questions. But I’m running on my last few hours of consciousness.” Sherlock huffs. The sheer physical limit that restrains his fiery mind is always a cause for resentment. In this regard, his sturdy flatmate who comes closest to understanding his work is very highly appreciated. “John, I am going to need the comprehensive personal histories of the suspects from the Control System.”

“Of the one clone? The other two are citizens, in case you forgot.”

“Then go to the Citizen Control System – gosh, do I have to spell out everything?”

With a puff, John stomachs the impatience as fatigue though Sherlock is acting no more pushy than usual, and tries to explain the obvious. “Umm, privacy? You’re talking about the utmost confidential database on Earth that’s not even supposed to exist, I don’t think they’ll just hand me the profiles if I ask nicely.”

In return, Sherlock casts John a _don't be so daft_ kind of a glance, and tosses him a bracelet.

\---

 

“A mastermind who does his research, _with a certain degree of statistician’s obsessive-compulsive disorder_ – you heard the man, Sebbie.” Moriarty laughs heartily. “I never thought of putting it that way before.”

“I am so sorry, James.” Eyes distraught, Moran’s pale lips are quivering, thick hair messier than ever. “I thought I could throw off Sherlock but I was wrong, and now he’s after us. What can our dummy do to deter the investigation?”

“To deter the investigation – no, no, what are you thinking?” Moriarty stretches out a hand to pat his engineer in distress, who looks up full of questions. “This is brilliant – to see truth by reasoning in the absence of patterns, that is the essence of genius. Oh, I’m giving myself a massive boner in awe.” The light-heartedness always serves to pacify Moran’s doubts. “There is nothing to be sorry for.” As he assures Moran of that, Moriarty’s eyes are positively sparkling.

“Bring it, Sherlock, the game is on.”

\---

 

Mycroft’s Identity makes everything speedy, and John is able to get back before Sherlock has finished his usually brief napping. Before heading to the kitchen, John sets down the memory stick on the coffee table. When he gets out with tea and sandwiches, Sherlock is already busy going through the holographic profiles that have filled up every corner of the living room.

“Turns out, Baldwin the juvenile is of public clone origin before adoption. Von Herder, the natural male, had a forebrain implant five years ago to alleviate his anxiety issues. And Sarah, the corporate clone who lost her job, features a notorious embedment which drove many mad in its initial stage of development. So now we have a connection: they all have chips in their brains.”

John feels a lump in his throat. As frightening and dismal as the suggestion is, somehow he senses that the unfortunate events are pointing somewhere. He sets down the mugs and plates to avoid a potentially disastrous display of shock, and wipes his slightly sweaty palms on his trousers. “Whoa, all right. Where does that lead us?”

“I cannot be absolutely certain without further analysis, but the new information converges to the Galaxy Academy, more specifically the works of Professor Moriar- ”

John’s fingers snap on the S-field. By the time he realises what his subconscious has done for him, it’s too late. He is, at the moment without a doubt, right under the most intense observation of the M-Lab. _So it is done._ He has exposed his deliberate tempering with the data feed. A crime, as defined by the M-lab, punishable by any measure.

_Flee._

_But if Sherlock is right, as always, what would the M-Lab venture to do next?_

_If I switch it off soon enough, maybe it will count as just another blackout?_

“Sherlock, please, could you stop talking for a moment?”

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m… I’m tired, too, you know, there’s only so much that my brain could take.” John pleads. _Anything to block off Sherlock’s discovery. But does it make any difference at this point?_

Oblivious to John’s internal struggle, Sherlock is visibly dismayed by the lack of an audience. “Should have known. Go to bed then, don't ask me to tuck you in.”

_I don’t even know what that means_ , John says to himself bitterly.

\---

 

“All right, that does it. The likelihood of that blackout occurring randomly in the middle of a sentence is less than 5%,” says Moran angrily, “clearly there was some form of intentional interference. That will not do.”

“Interesting.” The look on Moriarty’s face is grave, not matching the statement. “Right as Sherlock was getting to the point. Was the cut-off administered by an interested third party, or was our dummy trying to be protective?” His gaze alternates between the three less-watched monitors, before fixing on one.

“So we have been trapped by evolution, so attentive to what could be seen and heard, but reluctant to interpret the more informative charts and graphs. Seb, zoom in on the somatosensor; behold, an anomaly – contact with a non-household foreign object.” Moriarty sighs. “Plug me in.”

A variety of cords are attached to Moriarty’s skull, and Moran watches on with uncertainty, as Moriarty reports verbally what he’s feeling. “Starts in the kitchen. Handling metal, bread, and porcelain. Burned a finger – ouch. Carrying porcelain. Putting down porcelain. Hands slightly damp – nervous? Hands wiping on denim. Hah. Philistine. Left hand wandering into pocket – here, wind back 3 seconds. There was something in his pocket.” Suddenly, Moriarty rips off the cords, in half-enlightenment, half-rage. “A petty S-field generator? Well played, Mr. Holmes, but in the wrong hands, at the wrong time.” Moriarty turns to Moran, who is busy checking the damage state of the cords. “So it’s been at least since the first blackout, and our very own John Watson has the balls to act like all is well. I’m impressed by our clone, Sebbie, I really am, but he’s so worried over the wrong thing at the moment.”

Putting away the cords, Moran smirks. “Abundantly brave as we have built him, but like someone has said before, bravery is just a kind word for stupidity. Mama’s gonna teach him a lesson.”

Amused by Moran’s stern resolution, Moriarty’s calm re-emerges. As if suddenly remembering the date, he warmly calls out, “Chill, Sebbie, do you not know what day it is? Let’s put the science of intellect to the back of our minds for one night, and indulge in our primal impulses, if you know what I mean.”

Moran’s concern dissolves at the suggestion. “Oh, I thought you forgot, per usual.” He retorts, pinching Moriarty’s arm. “But our dear Watson shall not be deprived of a _celebration_ either. You know, I’ve never put any dream conditioning techniques into practice, and tonight seems like a good time. How about the condensed experience of the average soldier in classical warfare?” Seeing that Moriarty is non-objective, Moran whistles, and types in some commands into the interface.

“Sending _nightmares on Valentine’s_.”

\---

 

Dinner is awkward back at 221B. For more than once, John thinks of saying something, but he dares not excite more input from Sherlock, who just seems to be absorbed in thoughts. In addition, the lack of reaction from the M-Lab is far from reassuring. In the end, he heads for bed with his mind full of scenarios and skips an account of today’s gloomy events, not risking another activation of the S-field.

Falling asleep is easy enough, but sleep itself is not. As John drifts in unconsciousness, the air becomes suddenly heavy with anticipation and sulphur. Before he could figure out what it’s about, deafening noises come from afar, and his companions are cut down like weeds. Then the ground crumbles, and there is pain, of crushed bones, and general helplessness. Finally, as the agony gradually dies down, the taste of maggots creeps onto his tongue.

John thrashes in the darkness. _So this is the response._ Neither the lingo or the concept of suicide is installed in him, but he wonders if there is an exit to this miserable existence. That is, until a familiar hand clasps his shoulder, and an unfamiliar warmth engulfs him, dispelling the anguish. And John is awaken, in Sherlock’s arms.

_Indulge me, if just for a second._

Still sobbing, John buries his face in Sherlock’s silky T-shirt. _Cotton. Comfort. Laundry detergent that John has picked up last week. Home. Fancy soap. Brat. And the ever-present faint tinge of antiseptic -_ suddenly realising that Moriarty or Moran could also be smelling this, _smelling Sherlock_ , John startles, falling back into the sweat-drained sheets, pained and sick in the stomach. He collects himself to meet Sherlock’s concerned gaze.

“Thank you. Sorry. It was – it was the battlefield.”

Lying to Sherlock’s face is of course very unnerving, even in the dark. But the explanation was truthful, except that there is no battling against a one-sided brutal onslaught. Either way, Sherlock seems to be in no mood for deductions. “Would you like me to stay, John?”

_Yes, please, do_ – no. John coils away, subconsciously clutching at his chest where the presence of the metal slab is prominent as ever. _What will Sherlock think, should his dexterous long fingers stumble upon the unnatural coldness?_

“No, I’m fine. Please, go and get rested. There’s work tomorrow, right?” John attempts at a smile, weakly.

Sherlock has doubt in his eyes, but with another light pat on John’s shoulder, he gets up to leave. As Sherlock quietly closes the door, John murmurs, “Good night.”

Reaching into his drawer with a trembling hand, John flips on the S-field. He is too tired to care. But even then, he could not close his eyes again. Instead, he sits by the window until the Sun is up and Sherlock is heard shuffling around downstairs, before exhaustion overcomes him.

\---

 

Inside the innermost office of the Terra Museum, the superintendent is less than friendly as Holmes the senior states his intention. Nevertheless, he notions for several bulky containers to be pulled from the 21st century storage unit. “Holographic digitisation is still in progress, Sir, and I’m afraid you may need to make use of the unconventional physical indexes.”

Mycroft sends him out with words of gratitude, and Anthea proceeds to look up Western Europe – the United Kingdom – Afghanistan War. Soon enough, her gloved fingers pick out a single file case from the W stack. Mycroft opens it up, and exhales deeply.

“No commercial enterprise would delve this far back for prototypes. It could only be a feat of the over-zealous and over-educated, with proper access – the Academia. But why Sherlock?” he shoots the question, not really towards Anthea.

“The Academia.” Anthea gives a simple nod. “Searches commencing now. - Sir, the contents of this journal article seem relevant.”

An abstract lights up in front of them, along with figures. The look on Mycroft’s face turns, from bewildered to ghastly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concerning this universe: The isolation of DNA by a Swiss guy marks 1869 as the starting year of human genetics sample records. (The name is Friedrich Miescher, who happened to pass away in 1895. Not that this has anything to do with the story.)
> 
> Friendly reminder: Do not try to clone a Balrog of Morgoth at home. However, if you succeed please let me know.


	6. Outlier Detection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Moran and Mycroft chase after a runaway clone.

Week 36

Key words: Dummy restoration

Description: Deliberate interference with transmission.

Comments: REBELLION MUST BE CRUSHED

\---

 

“It is an honourable mission, perhaps the most honourable for your kind, to probe the greatest mind amongst the living.”

“The accomplishment of the mission will mark your release; there will be nothing to set you apart from a citizen, and you will be rewarded a proper share more than enough to make the freedom enjoyable.”

“Attend to his every need, and act worthy enough to be taken along on cases. This is the sole purpose of your creation; fail that, consider yourself expired.”

 

The overdue sleep is neither long nor good, when the voices that John is running away from echo in his mind. Perhaps the S-field is doing funny things already. _Well, better mad than dead._ With a start, John pushes himself out of bed, and washes up briskly. He pays a little more attention in the picking of his outfit than normal, and finds the bracelet still in his coat pocket. He scoops it out, sets it on his nightstand, then puts it back in again. Since Sherlock has never given him anything else, this might be the only souvenir he gets. _Oh, he wouldn’t miss it, anymore than he would miss me._ For a second, John’s thoughts drifts back to the _bicycles_ , and soft breeze on the river bank. Grabbing the S-field generator, he inhales deeply as if in the greens, before heading downstairs to meet an impatiently trotting Sherlock.

“Oh, about time. I was hoping for an early start.”

John forces his tone to be flat and casual. “Listen, Sherlock, I…I’ve got stuff to deal with. Got to run. Sorry.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes excessively. “You have no family and few friends. What errand could you possibly have?”

“Oh, thanks for pointing that out, I guess it’s high time to get a life of my own now, isn’t it.” John’s irritation is largely honest. “I…I’ve got an interview, at the hospital. I’m getting a real job, see? Sent in my CV last night.”

“John, what is the matter? You’re acting weird.”

“Well, are you upset over being out-weirded?” John tries jest. It’s not working for him. _For God’s sake, you’re not wired for this, just get out._ He turns around for the door in a hurry, not seeing Sherlock’s outreached hand. “Aren't you supposed to be working too? Off you go. Godspeed.”

“Fine. When will you get back?” Sherlock calls out from behind.

“I don’t know. As soon as I’m done.” And John strides away, lest the moisture in his eyes becomes visible.

_What a sucky goodbye._

\---

 

“Permission to seize the target, Sir?” Anthea asks.

“Not yet, not yet.” Mycroft lightly shakes his head, as he watches John hastening away from 221B. “To provoke an unpredictable reaction in Sherlock’s periphery would be – undesirable. Let us make the flat safe first.” He allows John to disappear, before heading inside.

\---

 

At the Citadel, everyone looks like they are headed somewhere with some sort of purpose, clone or citizen alike. For a moment, John entertains the thought of himself being a real doctor, out for some air in the middle of a day’s work. He is seriously contemplating joining the line at the Museum to exercise some citizen privilege, when a white flash hits his left thigh, burning a hole into the fabric. Reflectively clutching at the smoking pieces that once formed a imaginary shield, John feels the tentacles of the M-lab wrapping in, smoothly and soundlessly. As he looks up, emerging from the source of the shock in quick steps is no other than Mr. Moran, the mockery in his bright smile all the too apparent.

For some reason, this is not totally unexpected.

“Be grateful to Science, of whose advance you’re contributing very little, that has allowed this handgun to destroy the target but nothing else - just over 5 years ago this very pellet would have shattered your bones.” Tucking away the sleek firearm in his hand with a look of admiration, Moran stops at a civil distance, and leans slightly forward as if in inspection. “Since you’re not doing your job anyway, I thought you could use a little reboot.” His eyes trail down to the hole in John’s trousers. “Kept the trinket in your left pocket, always. Did my OCD rub off on you?” He tuts, something in his tone resembling pity. “But to see you naively hiding yourself in a dumb-ass interference signal breaks my heart - I thought you wouldn’t forget, that I am capable of tracking anyone I fricking choose, chipped or not. Trust me, it’s not easy to deal with my own creation like this.”

John takes a deep breath. Now that he’s facing what he dreads, the apprehension is gone. “Was it easy to do what you did to the others?” The calm of his own voice is surprisingly fortifying. “What you did was beyond OK.”

“And what YOU did, was beyond ridiculous.” Moran makes no attempt to cloak his bitter spite. “What do you think you were doing, protecting your genius friend from _us_? Rest assured that we would never touch a hair on Sherlock’s precious head even as he hunts down the whole Academy, while I wouldn’t so much as blink to hit the terminate button and be finished with you. Sherlock’s one workday is worth a million times more than your whole miserable life – that is not a careless exaggeration, for I never mess with numbers. The production cost of your lot is _marginal_ to what is to be garnered from a fraction of his vastly untapped intellect. Get that, dummy?”

“Judge me however you want, but what about all these people you killed and made kill? They don't deserve - ”

“Oh, what do they deserve, losers who have indulged themselves in all the material comforts of this world brought about by the work of others and taken up various public resources but accomplished next to nothing? Serving as Sherlock’s stimuli might be the best they can do. No, don’t you give me that look - I don’t recall installing any moral disciplines, did you pick those up while hanging out with the sociopath? Interesting.” Moran’s eyes glare. “You are designated to make observations, not decisions. I built a dummy, not a priest. Don't take it upon yourself to change the way the world runs, Johnny, you’ve got so much to learn. Now go change your pants and get back to work, and either way, you’ll earn what you deserve in due time. Clear?”

“Yes, and I’m quitting from that work.” With that, John abruptly turns around to run, blending into the flux at the nearest entrance to the Jet-way Station. With a huge grimace, Moran follows, first in large strides, then racing. _Shit. Should not have made him so athletic._

_On second thought, should have just let the pellet go through his bloody leg._

Halfway down the tunnel, Moran stays his hand that was reaching for the handgun in the face of the masses moving in every direction. Arousing the public is not in his best interest. _God, I hate people._ Since the crowd also takes away much of John’s athletic advantage and makes Moran’s lean physique a plus, the distance between them begins to demonstrate a tendency to go down to zero before a shuttle would arrive on the platform. Panting hard and feeling overwhelmed, John spots a _Staff Only_ sign around the corner.

_Thank God for Mycroft._

The maintenance passage closes in Moran’s face. Suppressing his impulse to futilely shoot at the secured door only by redirecting his frustration back to the M-lab, Moran spits into his headgear through clenched teeth. “Jim, alert the authorities that we have a clone at large! Clone at large!”

“Hush, Sebbie, you know we can’t do that.” As usual, Moriarty sounds more laid back than to Moran’s liking. “What clone? Our dummy is never in their flimsy Clone Control System, and we’ll never hear the end of it if we talk first. I see that you have gotten rid of Big Brother’s lousy gadget, and the monitors are back on. So what’s not under control, by us?”

\---

 

The tip of Mycroft’s umbrella comes in through the door, just as Sherlock is about to put on his scarf.

“I saw your flatmate leave. Could have stopped him, but I thought it best to go over the issue with you first.”

Sherlock scowls. “Whatever issue you have, Mycroft, make it quick, I do have work today.”

“Perhaps in your toil to solve the mysteries of this city, you have missed the ones right in your flat. Put your gloves on before handling these _papers_.” Mycroft notions to Anthea, who hands a file case to Sherlock. “They are difficult to retrieve even for me. The ancient state of Britannia did boast a remarkably meticulous filing system.”

“I believe the era you are talking about is of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, going by the quality of the print. Are you asking for my advice on archaeology now?”

“It is surprising how history always reveals new things. Don’t you love surprises, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face falls as he catches a glimpse of the faded coarse 2D photograph on the first page of the contents, of a sandy-haired soldier with a weary smile, a Union Jack in background.

“Unless you believe in incarnation, your new best friend is born of a breeding-pool, not of a womb. His citizen Identity was a recent hack, if you would care to read the Records log. I do not have the heart to deem it impossible, Sherlock,” Mycroft is shaking his head, “but I have always thought it highly improbable for you to find a human companion.”

“So?” Sherlock shrugs off the indignity, though the hand holding the papers trembles slightly.

“SO? I’m telling you that your flatmate is _designed_ – by no other than the M-lab, if that name means anything to you. Look here,” Mycroft pushes the hovering pages of _Terra Bulletin of Intelligence Simulation_ into Sherlock’s face, along with the brain scans he obtained months ago. Somehow he misses the era of the printing press, when such materials could be slammed down with more drama. “Yourself being so mechanic, the occasional spurs of John~001’s robotic behaviour were passed as normal, were they not?”

Furrowing his brows over the graphs and equations, Sherlock skips to the _data_ section and pauses; his slightly clenched fingers are enough hints for Mycroft that something is way off. “They are talking about cases. _My cases._ ”

The newfound connection between the drab writing and recent events makes Sherlock silent with unspecified remorse, and Mycroft’s voice becomes somehow softer. “I regret not bringing you this information sooner; previously my worst-case conjecture concerning his endorser did not go beyond some mafia honcho who wants your whereabouts, but the M-lab, oh the M-lab - in his self-righteousness Moriarty knows of no limits, legal, moral or otherwise. I will see to it that this flat be adequately secured; meanwhile,” he extends his palm, “I would like to retrieve my Identity, just to be safe. You’ll find your way to another one at your convenience, won’t you?”

Sherlock searches his pockets before freezing at the realisation. “I…I gave it to him. For a case.”

For a second, Mycroft looks like he is about to implode. “With that level of clearance he could be wrecking havoc anywh- Good God, Sherlock!”

“I can’t - I don’t - Get out.” With an exasperated swing, Sherlock points his bow to the door, before setting it to the strings quickly.

\---

 

“That noise is very disturbing, Sir.” Anthea makes a rare uninitiated comment.

“Yes, it is. He started doing it at age 10.” Mycroft sighs. “Before that, he cried. Give him a minute, after which we still need to clear out the flat. Go through every piece of John~001’s possession, see if there would be any clue to the conspiracy.”


	7. While ( ) do begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea ships Johnlock. Problem?

The current state of 221B is pitiful at best. Sherlock sits in total silence, while the rooms are being practically torn down. He shrugs when it is declared from one room or another, that nothing remotely suspicious could be found. Mycroft grips his umbrella and huffs, not in a relieved way.

“In my previous misjudgement I gave your flatmate a signal shield, and it has been activated daily.” Mycroft waves the glowing list of activation records to Sherlock. “It will be crucial for us, to find out what he had been concealing even from his endorsers. Any thoughts?”

Sherlock skims through the time intervals, and shakes his head. “As far as I remember, which is all of them, he stayed in his room.”

The ensuing search in John’s bedroom takes the longest while, not because of the quantity or complexity of the contents, but because of the expectation to actually come up with something. Finally, Anthea descends from the stairs, a log-pad in hand. Mycroft takes a step forward, but she bypasses him, and hands the pad straight to Sherlock, who acknowledges the unconventional act with a grateful nod, provoking a deeper scowl from Mycroft.

Anthea turns back to Mycroft. “Sir, the activation records of the S-field are exactly matched in time by the daily logs in this pad, the only exception being last night. Concerning the private nature of these logs, I have taken the liberty to ask first for the judgement of Mister Holmes the junior.”

Mycroft raises a questioning eyebrow at the glint of sympathy in her voice, while Sherlock could not help an untimely grin in his peruse. The sheer number of entries reminds him of just how much time they have spent together. John’s account resembles much of _Camina Burana_ , plus some detection and minus the drinking – that is, lamentation over unrequited love and Fate in general. The farther he reads, the more lost for words Sherlock gets. The events of the last few days are rapidly rearranging themselves in his Mind Palace, intertwining, untangling, forming a new picture, until the longing to see his short sturdy clone of a flatmate again makes his heart ache. _Funny. Didn’t know I had one._

Ignoring Mycroft’s outreaching hand, Sherlock gingerly puts the log-pad into his own pocket. “Have faith in my judgement for once, Mycroft, that despite being a subordinate, John Watson takes no part in M-lab’s conspiracy. A rescue is in order instead of a hunt, if you are remotely interested in serving the public good, by bringing Moriarty down.”

The same pleading look from Anthea does little to dispel Mycroft’s doubts. Nevertheless, he relents, as always. “I don’t know about bringing down anyone, but I do what I can.”

An alert brings Mycroft’s attention back to Anthea. “The S-field has been turned off, Sir, soon followed by your Identity accessing a maintenance passage at Citadel Station.”

 _Oh, John, brilliant._ “I know exactly where he is going.” Sherlock springs out of the armchair, “Leave this to me.”

\---

 

Moran nervously adjusts his headgear as the shuttle passes level 60, the lowest he has ever been yet. “Where is he, James? Talk to me.”

“Ah, reaching Level 40 soon. The construction cart is regrettably faster and more agile, and funny enough, our dummy seems to know his way around there.”

“Level 40? The Jet-way doesn’t even go that low!”

“Well, for maintenance it does. Since there is no way out below Level 43, it looks like our dummy is heading straight for the ground.”

“But I have never been to the ground!” Moran screams, gathering general dirty looks from his fellow passengers, for most of which _the ground_ is also an exotic concept.

Moriarty chortles in response. “Worry not, my dear, aren’t we capable of making him feel _anything_? It should not be a big deal to pull him to a halt with – a stroke or something.” Turning away from the monitors, he pores over Moran’s haphazard interface for the first time. “Now, which button do you push?”

“No, no, stay your hand -” Moran is positively panicking. “The neural commands are interlocked and you can’t – ugh, just stop. One wrong command, and we risk debilitating our dummy totally.”

The implication of his inadequacy at the techy parts irritates Moriarty greatly. He oppresses an urge to smash the interface and see what comes about. “Fine then, get your arse back here, and we’ll treat him properly. What’s wrong with total debilitation - you think the rebel can still be salvaged?”

“I feel like there is _something in him_ to be salvaged.”

\---

 

_Lower, lower, lower._

_As elephants choose their spot of eternal rest, so should I._

John pushes open the last iron door, breaking up the new ivy vines grown over it on the outside. He steps into the bright rays of mid-afternoon; a long shadow is cast by a tall figure straight ahead. And Sherlock turns around, the last thing John thought he’d see again; at the same time, he is not surprised.

“Getting some air?” Sherlock’s voice is flat, as usual.

John’s mind races. _How long do I have? Just get to the point._ “There is something I need to show you. I am going to take my shirt off – don’t be alarmed.”

“But it’s cold.”

 _Is that a way of saying he cares?_ John smiles bitterly as he unzips his coat and throws it to the ground. “Well, there won't be time for me to catch anything.” His undressing goes on, until his upper body is bare.

Just above John’s left chest, the sinister band of metal glistens in the sunlight. Sherlock stretches out his right hand to trace its outline with steady long fingers, his gaze fixed on John’s face.

“There are five more in my brain, and they wire what I see to the M-lab. Guess that wasn’t a nice thing to do – sorry. Anyway, I have walked out on their lot, and termination could happen any second now. Sherlock,” John’s breath is getting short and heavy, “whatever Mycroft has told you, it’s true. I’m telling you now, I’m not, erm, real. Honestly, there were times that I thought you weren’t either.” He chuckles softly. ”but let me say this before I go: I am sorry for whatever part I’ve played in their plot, and I’m glad to see you expose it. You’re the best man I have ever known, and I am grateful to have shared my days with you. Goodbye, Sherlock.” He pauses.

 _Oh, come on._ “I love you.” It brings an unbelievable amount of relief, to simply spit it out. _Well, I said it, and that’s settled._

Sherlock’s face stays perfectly unimpressed, except for the minimal constriction of lips. And John’s smugness wanes, as Sherlock’s unreadable misty grey eyes penetrate his. Sherlock’s fingertips slowly trace up from the chest, to gently curl up along John’s jaw line. “Yes, yes you are.”

With that, Sherlock’s lips come over John’s.

_Oh._

_Oh hell no, the M-Lab is watching –_

_Oh God yes._

John’s half-naked body is electrified. Too many funny signals are shot up to his brain at the same time, and he couldn’t quite figure out what he’s feeling. Warm – burning, soft – cutting, gentle – snapping, the confusion is more than he could take. He groans a little, only to be more fervently cuddled in Sherlock’s grip. _Ah, sweet primal impulse, it’s in our DNA._ But there’s something more prominent, not wired, not coded, not double-helix churned, but simply _is_ –

 _’Tis a happy ending, if I expire at this moment,_ thinks John. Not that he has any capacity left for _thinking_.

\---

 

“Error: Dopamine overload.”

“Error: Serotonin overload. ”

“Error: Endorphins overload. ”

“Error: Hardware failure. Restarting.”

“Attempting to reconstruct data sequence. Reversing.”

“.You love I”

 

The piercing siren tearing through the M-Lab arouses curious peeps from colleagues, who are shooed back to their cubicles by Moriarty’s look of wrath. While the monitors flashes in red, Moran tries all the buttons he could in frantic agony, to no avail. He falls back into a chair, and pushes himself away from the now-defunct interface for a while.

Moriarty locks his eyes onto the last bit of data stream on the frozen screen before the chips snapped and burned. “Ah, sentiment, thou art nonlinear.”

“My bad, for under-designing the load of _happy_ transmitters.” Moran mutters.

“To be fair, the exponential rise in a matter of milliseconds is near impossible to manage in any circumstances. Apparently machines fall in love too, and I mean the both of them.” Moriarty sighs. “When I initially envisioned the perfect partner, I meant as in intelligent conversation, not in - bed.”

The reference to intimacy stirs up Moran’s fond memory, and his dejection recedes momentarily. “Well, Jim, what do we know? When you initially hired me, you wanted me to handle your prick, not your project.”

Moriarty chuckles at the reminder. “How did they put it, love from the brain, and boner from the heart?” Speaking of the heart, his expression turns grave again. “Back to our broken dummy - at least the chip in his chest is still functional, undisturbed by the drama in the brain. Carry out the termination procedure then, and we shall start with a clean slate.”

“No rush, my dear Professor – this matter has been on my mind for a while now. As said before, the removal of John Watson at this point would have unpredictable, maybe largely regrettable, impacts upon dear Sherlock. Moreover,” Moran tucks in his chin to emphasise, “Have you noticed how much our dummy has changed since leaving the Lab? How he thinks, how he talks, how he sees the world - John Watson is no longer a dummy for the input to the model. John Watson _is_ the model. The development of his mind under Sherlock’s influence is the best demonstration of the self-learning evolution of intelligent systems. While we have refrained from touching Sherlock’s brain because he is the only sample,” the glare in Moran’s eyes is unsettling even to Moriarty, “John Watson is replicable, and I would not hesitate doing anything to him, necessary or not, when his mind _matures_.”

“Hmm, Sebbie, you look extra hot, when you come up with brilliant ideas like that.”

“Shut up.” Moran smirks, not pushing away Moriarty’s hands that’s coming onto him.

\---

 

Apart from the mess that Mycroft had made, the flat is every bit the same as John had left it in the morning. Holding Sherlock’s hand in his, it seems to John that an age have passed between them. The thought of the dangling, disconnected sensors in his brain both annoys and exhilarates; he gives the new patch – courtesy of Anthea - a pat, now in his right pocket. The threat of the sixth chip still lurks, but at least, his mind is freer than ever.

“Great, now I have shrapnel sticking around in my body like a true 2000s’ soldier.”

“I’m sure something could be done,” Sherlock says, the softness quite uncharacteristic.

“A word of warning – now that nobody gets to tell me to be nice, and with that thing called ‘free will’, I might come across as somewhat, what’s the word, bitchy?”

“I look forward to it.” Sherlock grins, looking goofy and adorable at the same time. “Really, John, you are good at surprises. It never occurred to me that you were sentimental about – crappy shows.”

Receiving his own log-pad from Sherlock, John takes a moment to figure out what he is referring to, then a warmness reaches his eyes. Nevertheless, he tells Sherlock decidedly, “Oh, one more thing – please, I would like to keep my logs private. I know you’re good at cracking codes, but just don’t.”

“Noted. Anything else I should know?”

“That’s all for now. By the way, that was an epic kiss,” John impulsively licks his lips a little. “Somehow I am reminded of a children’s tale -”

“Where a female royal entity in permanent dormancy is revitalised in a similar way. You are shamelessly self-flattering by alluding to the Sleeping Beauty.” Their shared giggles come to an end when John says, quietly, “But the Witch stands, and looms over many.”

“So we will stand up to him, together.” Sherlock puts his hand over John’s as John takes out the patch to set it on the coffee table. “I trust that we won’t be needing this forever.”

They are both silent for a moment, until John says, “According to Mycroft, the original Watson was a doctor, got married with two children, and lived to a prosperous old age.”

Sherlock nods. “How tedious.”

“I suppose he lived quite enjoyably.” John muses. “The point is, however twisted the rationale for my current existence is, I am happy to be here, right now, with you.”

Their lips brush again, until Sherlock pulls away hastily.

“John, I assume another rush of endorphins would not break anything?” Sherlock drops his voice low, and puts both hands to John’s hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Concerning Moran’s operational interface – by “all the buttons” I mean ctrl + alt + delete. Joking – I don't think the M-Lab runs on Windows.
> 
> 2.(Additional note - this was a thing at the time of the completion of this part. Still, any thoughts were, are, and still will be enormously appreciated.)  
> EVERYONE WHO REVIEWS WILL GET A LOVE POEM  
> AO3 is red,  
> FFN is blue.  
> Thank you for reading,  
> Would you please review?  
> Oft have I lamented the amount of feedbacks on this work as contrasted against the abhorrently long hours it takes to get each chapter done – largely due to my own over-thinking. But then, my mind goes back to the hundreds of much more wonderful and deserving stories that I have flailed over without leaving so much as a kudos. Yeah, I’m that lazy. Nevertheless, I would so love to learn what you think! Not as much as Professor Moriarty does, but it will help me evolve. Therefore, to make a point and in celebration, I shall respond in romantic verse (well, maybe a limerick) to everyone who leaves a review on this final chapter of the first part. Concrit is the best, while casual remarks are equally welcome! If you have a tumblr, I will make it a blog post for sharing – be sure to post your url if it’s not in your profile already. To my (15 subscribers on AO3/ 8 followers on FFN, I appreciate your continued interest immensely) and all of you who have read this far: Thanks again for bearing with me, please review, and enjoy some amorous (read: awkward) poetry just for you!


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